


Hustler

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [42]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1997: A moment of Ray's childhood, and a moment where he leaves Chicago right before Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hustler

Ray was a hustler, just like Pop.

It might have been watching his Pop knock balls around on the pool table, but Ray had an affinity for trajectory, force and motion. He was really good at figuring out how to make the right shot. But mostly, he was really good at pretending to be bad at it, then cleaning out the competition when they took the bait.

By the time he was nine years old, no one would play marbles with him anymore, 'cause he kept taking all the good shooters and all the best of everyone's collections. Cat's eyes and turtles and aggies and every kind of clearie under the sun, in a variety of colors. Ray had tons of 'em, carefully stashed away in old cigar boxes he got out of dumpsters and cleaned up.

He was a hustler; no one would play with him, but he zealously guarded his collection, hid them where no one would look. The only person who knew about 'em -- 'cept Ma, Ma knew everything -- was Frannie.

Sitting on the floorboards of his bedroom, she'd hold a pretty little marble in her hand and _ooh_ and _ah_ over each one, and Ray would tell her what it was and where it came from and she'd want to see more, and he'd show her more, and something in him felt good everytime he did. He cleaned out a special box, just for her, and he put all her favorites in it. She wasn't old enough now, but someday... someday, he'd give it to her.

 

 

Ray was a hustler. He could hide the lump in his throat, hide the ache in his chest, convince people that he was someone that he wasn't.

"I'll miss you," she said to him, the last night he was in Chicago, the last night he was allowed to be home, when it finally became clear that none of them could talk him out of it.

"Here," Ray said, giving her the box. "Don't open it 'til I'm gone, though, okay?"

In the sunlight coming through the windows of the plane the next day, Ray wrapped the memory of his little three-year-old sister holding a marble around a million others, in some place where not even a hustler like him could reach. Somewhere it would be safe.


End file.
